Mark your devotion in a thousand cuts
In a thousand kisses, where doors open and shut
On a thousand knees, bloodied and torn
With the dreams both alive and stillborn.

Strike them blind so that they may see
Imperfection, bowing low, where perfection be
Abbadon their faces, soot awash in char
Cut their wings so they may fly far.

Beneath a thousand suns and argent moons
Petals so cold they burn, above battle bloom
In displeasure and pleasure, their will zoetic
A tongue for Them prays in whispers, frenetic.

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Miraman, in the year 652 AF.